


Coexistence

by Sky_kiss



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Belligerent Sexual Tension, F/M, Hate to Love, Hatemance, Infidelity, Ozai (Avatar) is an Asshole, Passive aggressive combat, Power Play, Roughly Canon Compliant, Well. Hate to vague tolerance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-29 19:16:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15079874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sky_kiss/pseuds/Sky_kiss
Summary: This peasant bride is his father’s cruelest debasement. Ursa is eighteen when they marry. She is pretty and stupid and weak. Ozai knows she will drive him to madness. But there are moments when her masks slip and he is treated to a vision of fire. In those moments, he finds her beautiful.





	Coexistence

**Author's Note:**

> Originally, I just wanted to demonstrate the like...stress, I guess? A weak willed, subservient, victim-y Ursa would put Ozai under. Like. She would drive him insane. It turned into this. It's definitely not my usual interpretation of them. But hey. I kind of like it. And. It's probably more...truthful.

She is eighteen when they marry. Ozai stares at the girl with barely veiled contempt, lips pressed to a thin line. His dislike is immediate and intense. She is a small creature, delicately built. Even with the thick caking of cosmetics he can tells she’s spent the night crying. Her eyes are downcast, swollen, still glittering with unshed tears. Beneath the heavy fabric of their formal robes, her hands are shaking.

Oh, how she mourns her fate. The peasant girl, married to a harsh, unloving, suitor. 

She does not dare to meet his gaze when the moment comes, muttering her vows in a small voice. Her kiss is passionless. When the time for feasting comes, she remains at his side, unspeaking. She is droll company. She stares listlessly at her food. 

This peasant bride is his father’s cruelest debasement yet. He hates her. The savagery of that thought almost shocks him. She is pretty and stupid and weak and he knows, without having spent an evening in her company, that she will drive him to madness. 

Her arm is limp in his grasp. He digs his fingers into her bicep hard enough to hurt, trying to incite a reaction. Her features twist in pain briefly before she schools herself, placid, yielding. It’s only when he closes the doors to their new chambers that she begins to quiver. 

She is afraid of him. It radiates off of her in waves. Tears cut tracks down otherwise pale cheeks; her lower lip trembles. His disgust returns, more violent than ever.

“Are you capable of anything but tears?” 

She swipes one hand across her eyes, voice choked, “Apologies, my lord.” 

“Apologies,” he snorts, pacing the length of the room. “You cower like a beaten dog.” 

Her voice is barely a whisper, “I am frightened, my lord. I do not know you and this has all been…” 

“Sudden?” He hates the way she shrinks back when he raises his voice, nodding like an obedient child. This is what his father has given him. A child. “We have both been subjected to this indignity.” 

“Of course.” She agrees with him when she should fight. Ursa shifts, crossing her arms over her breasts. She shifts away from him ever as she speaks, “Where...would you like me, husband?” 

He catches her wrist before she can touch him, grip bruising. He tries to imagine touching this simpering creature, face teared stained as he fucks her. He throws her hand away from him, voice cold, “You will sleep beside me tonight and nothing more. After this, you will keep to your chambers.” 

It’s the first time he’s seen her smile.  
_____

They interact only as necessary. The Fire Lord’s mandatory dinners or court functions. Otherwise, he prefers she keep to her quarters. Ursa is a dutiful wife. She is quiet and agreeable and tedious. When he speaks, she agrees without so much as an original thought flitting through her pretty head. She drops her eyes; she nods. He imagines most men would be grateful for such subservience. 

He loathes it. She is weakness. She is a lack of conviction, a lack of agency. She sits in her cage, pretty and unassuming, content with her powerlessness. There are evenings, seated together at one of his Father’s galas, where he wants to prod her, snarl at her, until she is forced to react. 

It is unbefitting of his station and so he is left to stew.  
_____

Ozai contents himself with the palace concubines. They are common women, yes, but they are full of life, passion. He respects that spirit, if nothing else. The frustrations remain. They are spirited but they kowtow to him every bit as readily as Ursa. They are just as false. 

He is caged, coiled, even as he finds his release. 

His skin is still sweat slick when he returns to his chambers. Ursa is there, seated at one of the small tables. A set of calligraphy brushes are laid out in front of her, untouched. The prince lingers in the doorway, brow furrowed. There is something...compelling in the image and he cannot say what. Her shoulders are squared, pulled up almost to her jawline. Her lips are pursed. 

For once, she appears affected.

Ozai speaks, his voice softer than he intends, “Are you lost, Ursa?” 

She doesn’t look at him. A muscle twitches in her jaw, “The light here is better. I thought…” she stops, fingers curling in towards her palm. She digs her nails into the table top, “I intended to paint.” His wife turns to face him. She’s prettier now than when they married. Her face has narrowed around her cheeks, her jaw; the last traces of baby fat worn away. The sunlight seems to catch in her eyes. They are not the dull shade of amber he initially imagined. They are brighter. A deeper ring of ochre encircles the iris. “Does my presence disturb you, husband?” 

Poison drips from the title. Her masks slip ever so slightly. Ozai smirks, moving towards his bedroom, “Do as you please, wife.”  
_____

She lingers in their shared rooms. Some mornings they take tea. On these occasions, they rarely speak. When they must, it is tedious. He reads his missives and she paints. In those moments, lost in her own thoughts, she is rarely beautiful. She extends herself beyond the bars of her cage, reaching for the fantastical. That woman is worth loving. 

That woman is not the one he possesses. 

In a fit of pique, he brings a concubine to their chambers. Ozai doesn’t even know the girl’s name. She laughs and she smiles and she paws at him. It’s cloying but at least she’s playing her part. It isn’t until they march through the living quarters that she stops, mouth hanging open. Color flashes over her cheeks. 

Ursa is there, seated on one of the couches, a scroll in her lap. His wife stares at them. For a moment, he might even claims she’s hurt. It’s impossible to say. Her masks snap back into place and there’s only nothingness again. He tugs at the concubine’s wrist, “Come.” 

“My prince, is this proper? Your wife…”

His lips curl back in an unfriendly sneer, “My wife is unconcerned. You may ask her if you like.” He drags the concubine against his chest, his hold on her hip bruising, “Tell us, wife. Are you bothered?”

Ursa glances between them. Something flickers in her eyes, “Whatever pleases my lord husband.” 

He wants to scream.  
____

Ursa sits across from him. The brush is poised in her hand; the strokes are smooth, fluid. If he were feeling more generously inclined, he would go so far as to call her talented. Her landscapes are particularly soothing. The princess’ tongue flicks out, wetting her lower lip. 

“Your behavior embarrasses us both, husband.” 

He expects her to shrink back as she speaks, to simper, to cower as she so often does. But Ursa regards him with hard eyes, dispassionate. It is not apathy or surrender that lights them now. It’s distaste. It’s hurt. A sickly thrill licks down his spine. Ozai pushes what remains of his breakfast aside, regarding her more carefully, “Have you finally taken an interest in your standing?”

She glances up from her work. The right corner of her lips curls up in a way that is more knowing than he likes. More woman and less the idiot child he was forced to marry, “I should think you would be more concerned. The second son cannot afford to lose what little clout he has, can he?” 

Ozai cocks his head to the side, sitting up in his seat, “That sounded dangerously like a threat, wife.” 

She smiles. Sweet and yielding, all her masks in place, “I would never dream of it, my love.”  
____

They have been married a year now and he knows precious little about her. His wife is a strikingly beautiful woman. Something has happened to her this past year. The masks remain but they are...changed. There is a cagey quality to them he does not like. They veiled her ignorance and naivete at one point. Now...he cannot say what lies beneath. 

Ozai purses his lips, “How do you occupy your time, Ursa?” 

“A strange question,” She tips her head the side. Her hair is a dark curtain, falling elegantly over her shoulder, highlighting the pale, flawless skin of her neck, “You’ve never been curious before.”

“Answer, wife.” 

The corner of her mouth twitches down before she catches herself, “As my husband commands.” The familiar vitriol coils in his belly. He wonders if she knows. The vicious flash in her eyes suggests she does, “I read. I study.” 

“Politics? History?’ 

“Both, my lord. I have had an...abundance of time,” she plucks at the cloth in her lap. “More than I anticipated when I was...brought here.” 

“Ah, yes,” he chuckles, wanting to hurt her. Needing to pay her back in kind, “Colonial, weren’t you?”

“Hira’a,” she clarifies.

“It’s quite easy to imagine you wading about in a rice paddy.” 

Her voice is soft and sweet, “I’m certain you have a powerful imagination, my lord husband. How else could you picture yourself on the Fire Lord’s throne?”

He blinks. To his utter shock, Ursa does not shrink back. She holds his gaze, reaching down to find her tea. She sips it, prim, well bred. He has no response.  
____

Impudence aside, she is better company. Her studies have served her well. She is not half so tedious at their court functions. Ursa smiles and placates. She is softness and light as she weaves her way through the magistrates. He is starting to see her now. To notice the edges she has so carefully hidden beneath her silks. 

There is an artfulness to her mannerisms. She comes across as too young, too optimistic, too yielding for anyone to concern themselves over. People speak and Ursa listens, hoarding her secrets. It is an...advantage she holds over him. 

He catches her arm as she moves past him, dragging her back against his chest. There is no fire in her blood. It’s in her eyes instead. Bright, beautiful, amber. Her skin is cooler than his own and he revels in the way she shivers, stiffens, “You’ve been busy, wife.” 

She turns in the circle of his arms. Ursa stands on the tips of her toes, winds her arms around his neck. To an outsider, it would appear as if they were dancing. She speaks against the shell of his ear. Her breath is warmer than the rest of her, “I do all things for my husband’s glory.” 

He likes the way she lies. Ozai hums. He finds he enjoys the press of her body. Her breasts are smaller than most of the women he’s bedded but she is...elegant. There is a willowy quality to her build that he wishes to explore. His hands settle on her waist, “You speak so prettily, Ursa.” he traces the line of her cheek with his nose, “Did your scrolls teach you as much?” 

She shivers. He thinks he might have liked being married to this woman.  
_____

He continues to see his concubines. They are...pale shadows in comparison. Their skin is not half so flawless. Their hair lacks the requisite silkiness. It’s the eyes that bother him most. They are a dull, tedious shade of brown. He sends them away after he’s finished. He staggers out to find Ursa already waiting, arms crossed over her chest. They take their tea in silence. 

She plucks at her food, “You’re still seeing those women.” 

“Yes.” 

He enjoys the way she stiffens. It’s an almost instinctual movement. The muscles in her shoulders go taut; her breathing is more shallow. She’s trying to conceal the signs of her discomfort. The more time they spend together, the easier it is to pick out the flaws in her disguises. Ursa makes a show of inspecting the gardens just outside, “Would you ever stop?”

He hums, “Would you ever ask me?” 

For a moment, he wonders if she will. It’s such a small thing. One request. Ursa shakes her head, lips still pressed to a thin line, “No. My lord husband will do as he pleases.” 

He’s more disappointed than angry.  
_____

Their situation regresses. Whatever spirit she might have displayed, whatever wit, is swallowed up, hidden beneath her demure mask. She smiles when addressed. She laughs at Iroh’s jokes (and that is enough to leave him fuming). She is perfectly tedious. 

He does not like the change. 

He’s drunk. Or nearly drunk. It’s hard to say which. The world is swimming pleasantly. Ursa favors him with something like genuine affection when he tugs at her wrist, drawing her after him. The night is warm and muggy, bordering on claustrophobic. Ursa lacks a Firebender innate resistance to heat. A light sheen of sweat kisses at her skin.

He likes the way she feels against him. She stiffens when he steps into her fully, taking her face in his hands, “Ursa. So beautiful…” 

His wife relaxes, turning her face into his touch. He hates that it might not be genuine. The potential that she, like everyone else in his father’s nation, is only working to placate him. Ursa’s lips quirk up, gently teasing, “You must be very far gone to say as much, husband.” 

“You think I am unkind to you.” It isn’t question.

Ursa shakes her head, “I don’t think you’d spare me that consideration.” 

He chuckles, smoothing his fingers over her cheek. It’s the alcohol in his system. He finds himself wondering what she tastes like. How she would sound if he took her. His voice is lower than he intends, gently slurred with alcohol, “How little you know, Ursa.” He stops, thumb pressed against the seam of her lips, “What would you do if I kissed you?” 

Her eyes light with some heady mixture of fear and excitement, “I could not resist, husband. I would…” 

“Serve as a dutiful wife, yes,” he spits the word, touch falling away in an instant.

“Ozai…” 

His name sounds good on her tongue, in her voice. “Be a dutiful wife, Ursa. Leave me.”  
_____

He dreams of her. 

In his dreams, she is fire incarnate. She resists him. She fights. She is his kindred spirit, raging against the hand fate has dealt them. In his dreams, she whispers to him. Pretty little treasons. She will give him sons. He will sit on the throne. 

They will defy fate. They will transcend it. 

Reality is disappointing in comparison.  
_____

The whispers are not new. They are simply louder. 

His wife is a subject of popular discussion, it seems. They have been married well over a year now and she is without child. It would not usually be cause for alarm. She is still young, after all. The Royal family were cursed with notoriously difficult births.

It is his own...activities that spur the court’s morbid fascination. Some say it is a mutual thing. There is no love between them and so he finds his pleasure with lesser women. Some suggest the prince will not sully himself with one of Roku’s descendents. The uglier rumors are what catch his attention. 

Ursa’s face goes blank all at once. While he cannot claim to know her well, he understands this particular trick. She is hurting, well and truly, and has opted to shut herself off from the situation. In a moment she will smile, too wide, bordering on unnerving. The conversation drifts to them, clear as day. The young man is unaware of just how easily his voice carries. 

He calls her barren, a worthless dalliance. The Fire Lord’s most telling expression of displeasure with his younger son. Ozai feels a rage unlike any he has ever known (it does not matter that he suffered the same thoughts month prior; this boy has no right). He shakes free of his wife’s grasp, ignoring her protests. 

His voice is even; his voice is cold. Ozai taps the boy on the shoulder. The noble turns, irritated at first, before he recognizes him. In one fluid motion, the boy falls to his knees, sputtering apologies. Ozai ignores them. His lips are curled back in a vicious smile, teeth too white, “Agni Kai. You have spoken against my bride. A princess of the Fire Nation. This slight will not stand.” 

He protests; he begs. Ozai will not hear it. At sunset, they meet for their duel. 

He is not a fighter. He’s barely fit to call himself a firebender. 

It’s Ursa who saves the boy. Ozai looks to his wife, head tilted in silent question. He holds back to the killing blow. The duel is for her, after all, and she will decide its outcome. She shakes her head, dropping her eyes. The noble escapes with a few impressive burns and nothing more. He sputters his thanks, clutching at the fabric of her skirts, pawing at her. Ozai kicks him away. 

Ursa meets his gaze and holds it. He nods to her. 

All at once, the whispers stop.  
______

He doesn’t know the girl’s name. It doesn’t matter. She’s pretty enough to catch his eye and stupid enough to blush when he reaches for her arm. He regrets his choice as soon as they are alone. She’s...enthusiastic in a way that is more irritating than charming, clumsy in her desperation to please. His hands holding her hips aren’t enough to slow her frenetic pace. Ozai bites the inside of his cheek, willing his frustration down. It’s difficult. She’s inordinately noisy. 

He’s almost grateful for Ursa’s intervention. 

In the moment, he’s too stunned to fully understand what is happening. His wife wrenches the little creature off of him, tossing her down on the mattress. The concubine wails, clutching her arms over herself. Ursa is screaming something. To get out; to leave…

He doesn’t know. He feels the start of a migraine. Ozai presses two fingers to his temple. Sex usually relieved his headaches. 

The girl stumbles out of the room, robe clutched over her breasts. Ursa slams the door behind her. She’s beautiful in her rage, a flush of color in her cheeks. She stalks back towards him, hands balled into fists, “You insist on this...debasement. After everything else! After defending me…” 

He sighs, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Her confidence wavers when he climbs to his feet, stretching to the full extent of his height. His wife’s gaze rakes over his nude form. She swallows. Ozai does not miss the way her pupils dilate, “Why should I stop?” 

She strikes him, open palm against his shoulder, “Because I am asking you. Your wife is asking you.” 

“Ordering,” he corrects, hands bruising on her hips, “You are a princess. Order me to stop.” 

She stares at him, furious and beautiful and unyielding. He has never seen anything half so beautiful. The prince reaches for her, one hand tangling in her hair. She drags his lower lip between her teeth, “I order you, husband.” 

Ozai laughs. His lips move across the planes of her face, oddly gentle. Tracing the rise of her cheek, her jaw, her chin, her mouth. He wants her to act. He wants her to want him, to choose him. Ursa growls, nails digging into his scalp. She catches his lips before he can move away again, a grumbling sound catching in her throat. 

He finally knows how she tastes. Ursa is honey and smoke and flame. Ursa is perfection. 

And for the first time, he believes they might coexist.


End file.
